


Welcome to Nationhood

by americapersonified



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Self-Acceptance, Self-Discovery, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Vietnam War, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2020-05-02 03:52:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19191352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/americapersonified/pseuds/americapersonified
Summary: Alfred F. Jones had been raised as a normal teenage boy, but little did he know he had an intense destiny tied to the history and well-being of the only country he had ever called home.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The basic premise of this work is that when nations die they are eventually reborn and adopted into human families until they come of age to take their positions back as National Representatives. Obviously personified nations don't exist in real life so most of this is just completely improvised on my behalf. Hope you enjoy!

Mr. Jones believed himself to be of a realistic mindset, someone who was adaptable and level-headed. His father had taught him to be that way, and though he hadn’t listened to perhaps every lesson as a young man, he’d eventually learned to take those lessons in stride when there was no other choice but to swallow the fantasies and move on – accept his own reality.

You see, Mr. Jones had lost his wife in a car accident not five years prior. Anyone else might have broken down, losing their other half under such terrible circumstances; what’s more, being left to raise their child alone might send any parent spiraling down into deep depression and loneliness. But not Mr. Jones. No, the man was as composed as anyone possibly could be when they buried her, and remained composed, perhaps even cold, from then on into his son Alfred’s teenage years.

He sought to teach Alfred everything his dad had taught him, namely that crying wouldn’t bring Mrs. Jones back, that the boy would have to quit athletics and find a job to help support the both of them, and that a man’s outside behavior, how visibly put-together he was, greatly outweighed all his internal feelings.

This is why when Alfred started showing signs of mood swings, Mr. Jones brushed them aside. A few stern words and nights without supper would set the boy straight. After all, he had to learn that breaking down because of personal tragedies wouldn’t make things easier for him. The world didn’t have any pity to spare.

However, year after year these mood swings gradually increased in magnitude. Strangely enough, they appeared to correlate to the civil unrest shown on the news. And though Mr. Jones was content with his routine of watching the various news stations each night after work, one sorry night where Alfred almost threw a barstool at the television inspired him to remove television from both their schedules indefinitely.

Even more bizarre, however, were the nightmares that had begun to plague Alfred’s dreams. Mr. Jones only knew of them because Alfred had woken him up with his terrified cries on more than one occasion. Upon entering the room, Mr. Jones always found him curled up in his bed, trembling and whimpering and clutching the sheets so fiercely that he’d left various holes in them. Alfred never spoke to him when he demanded answers, though he tended to mumble things whilst still in his daze: names, locations, and sometimes even words from other languages that Mr. Jones didn’t recognize. The following morning would always see Alfred exhausted with dark bags under his eyes, and Mr. Jones was irritated with how disturbed Alfred’s behavior truly made him. No lecture could satisfy that haunted expression.

The final straw came when Mr. Jones came home from work one night to find the apartment seemingly empty. Alfred hadn’t gone to work that day, as he’d been feeling unwell. Yet Alfred’s room was completely dark, and instead the bathroom light across the hall was on, the sickly yellow light seeping underneath the door. Everything was silent except for the occasional sob, and Mr. Jones immediately took to trying to force the door open, though the knob refused to turn. Alfred had apparently locked it.

Grabbing the extra key from the kitchen drawer, Mr. Jones was finally able to undo the lock with a sound _click_ and wrench the door open. He entered to find Alfred crumpled on the floor, pale as his sheets and shaking to boot. There was a bloody knife in his hand, and Mr. Jones immediately fell to the floor, thrusting his arm out to grab it away from the young boy only to have Alfred’s foot pressed firmly against his chest, the knife tucked securely under his arm.

“I don’t know…” Alfred heaved, “…I don’t know what’s happening to me.” The boy coughed, choking on his sobs. Mr. Jones was left speechless, allowing himself to fall back against the door. Alfred slowly lowered his foot and brought the knife back into view. “Dad…” he started.

Mr. Jones always thought himself to be a realistic, level-headed kind of man, but seeing Alfred drag the blade across his delicate skin – watching the flesh break and peel and ooze with blood – only to observe as it appeared to reform together, stitch itself up, and fade as if it had never been there at all…it changed him. For the first time in his life since the death of his wife, Mr. Jones was truly, exceptionally frightened – like a small child – and wasn’t afraid to admit it.

“What are you?” he’d asked Alfred that night, shaken and sweating. He knew the look in his eyes must have been primal, as he could see the resulting shame in Alfred’s eyes shatter the initial fear.

“I’m Alfred F. Jones,” his son replied, the uncertainty lingering in those weepy blue eyes. “I’ve always been Alfred F. Jones.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred is moved into a new home, but finds it difficult to accept that he's a nation.

“Will I have my own TV?” Alfred asked, staring despondently out the window. Mr. Thatch, the fidgety, portly man beside him readjusted himself in the seat and cleared his throat, glancing sympathetically at the boy.

“You’ll have all the comforts of home, son. I swore that much to your father when he released you into our custody. And the gardens at Morgan Estate are exquisite this time of year. I think you’ll find the place altogether very peaceful.” “I’m not interested in gardens.” “There’s a swimming pool, too,” Thatch offered, deflating when Alfred didn’t reply.

The journey from Texas to Virginia had been a long, tense endeavor. Alfred supposed he could have made it less so by being a good sport about the whole thing, asking questions and showing actual enthusiasm for this new chapter in his life. But Alfred wasn’t happy, and he was tired of pretending to be okay with all of these unthinkable developments.

It had been almost two years since ‘the incident’. For several months his father had tried to cover it up. Once they both realized what Alfred was, Mr. Jones had gone through great lengths to keep Alfred away from other people: pulling him out of high school, making him quit his job, and forbidding all visitors until further notice. Mr. Jones even took Alfred’s cellphone away, destroying the boy’s final connection to the outside world. At one point the man had become so paranoid that he’d planned to move himself and Alfred out of state for fear that “they” would find them. Alfred didn’t know who “they” referred to, but his father’s paranoia did nothing to soothe his own anxiety.  

It didn’t matter in the end. The NRSA (National Representative Security Agency), who had been proactive in convincing Mr. and Mrs. Jones to adopt Alfred as a toddler despite his unknown origins, had knocked on the door the very morning Alfred turned eighteen, and from that point forward Alfred F. Jones was kept under strict supervision by NRSA officials at one of their bases in Dallas, Texas. His father never said a proper goodbye, though Mr. Thatch had assured Alfred that it wasn’t for a lack of wanting to.

Hundreds upon thousands of monotonous tests and experiments later and Alfred was finally on his way to his permanent residence as the National Representative of the United States of America. Morgan Estate had been built by Samuel Taylor Morgan in the late 1800’s as a gift to the original personification of the United States, and he’d later go on to found what would become the NRSA. In Mr. Thatch’s words, living at Morgan Estate was Alfred’s birthright, though Alfred was still resistant to the idea of being a national representative and, therefore, rather uncompromising until he was literally carried out the door and shoved into the backseat of the car.

As they neared their destination, Alfred felt even more suffocated by the tight confines of the car. They’d abandoned the limousine with the intent of being discreet, not wanting to draw unnecessary attention before Alfred’s formal introduction to the public. Unfortunately this meant Alfred was almost hip to hip with Mr. Thatch for the majority of the ride, much to both of their discomfort.

“Sit up, boy,” Mr. Thatch sighed, nudging Alfred impatiently with his arm. “In a few days you’re going to meet the President of the United States and several high-ranking officials, and then in a few weeks you’ll meet with a handful of other nations, and I don’t think anyone will be impressed with you if you slouch the entire time.”

“Good thing I’m not looking to impress anyone,” Alfred snapped, scooting as far left as he could manage until his cheek was pressed almost painfully against the window.

“America,” Mr. Thatch began.

“Alfred.” Alfred corrected.

“No,” Mr. Thatch pressed, “ _America_. You need to get used to hearing it. And you need to get used to the idea that sometimes destiny doesn’t play fair, and if you’ve already decided to be destiny’s victim then that’s completely up to you.”

Alfred scowled but said nothing. He straightened his back, however, as his seatbelt was digging rather painfully into his side, and a part of him figured it would get Thatch to ease up on him. He was exhausted with all the lectures.

“I want better for you,” Thatch continued in a gentler tone. “Don’t think of this as a curse, but as an opportunity. You’re going to change history. You can make this country a better place for everyone – make this _world_ a better place for everyone. But you need to open up and accept who you are, son. It won’t be easy, but I’d be tired as hell if I spent as much time internally moping as you’ve done this past year.”

“You’re tired as hell going up a flight of stairs,” Alfred replied, to which Mr. Thatch did not respond.

It wasn’t long after that the car finally pulled up to the gates of Morgan Estate, and Alfred was met with his first glimpse of the property. It wasn’t terribly huge, all things considered. The iron gates, draped in moss and revealing the initials S.T.M., actually hid most of the property from sight. But then the driver entered the four-digit code into the gate lock and said gates came apart, revealing the true grandeur of the property. It was a plantation style home: red brick with blue shutters and large, stately white columns. And Mr. Thatch hadn’t been lying to Alfred; the grounds were absolutely beautiful, rich and green and covered in oak trees. This piqued Alfred’s interest more than he cared to admit, as he’d always dreamed of living on a property with huge trees that were actually worth climbing; the closest he ever got was when his mother would take him to the park.

“Beautiful, huh?” the driver grinned at Alfred in the mirror, probably having seen that brief trace of excitement on his face.

“I guess,” Alfred replied, crossing his arms.

“It’s going to be fine, Alfred,” Mr. Thatch smiled. “I promise this place will be a refuge for you. It’s absolutely magnificent.” “If you say so,” Alfred said as they pulled around to the front door, removing his seatbelt with some relief. At least now he’d be able to walk away from a conversation.

Alfred walked up the path to the entrance, abandoning the car as Thatch and the driver struggled with the luggage. He slowly crept up the steps, listening to the way they creaked and squealed under his weight, but stopped when he reached the front door. He held out his hand and traced the intricate designs on the brass doorknocker; it was cast in the shape of an eagle. Then he grasped the doorknob itself, yet felt unable to open it.

This was someone else’s house, he thought to himself. It may have belonged to him in a past life, but he wasn’t that person anymore, right?

Unusually timid and irritated by it, Alfred turned to glance helplessly back at Thatch.

“Go on in!” Thatch called to him, nearly doubling over and wheezing as he tried to drag the luggage onto the brick walkway. “We’ll get everything sorted down here!”

Alfred turned back to the door and took a deep breath, exhaling and finally nudging the door open. He peered in at first, like a cat inching its way into a room its not supposed to be in, but little by little stepped in and gawked stupidly at the main staircase: tall and twisting and engulfed in light from the magnificent skylight floating above. The wood floors still creaked, and Alfred wondered if they were original to the house. They looked very well-kept if so.

Towards the back of the house Alfred could hear shuffling and rattling in what he presumed to be the kitchen. Mr. Thatch had told him that there would be a housekeeper to help them settle in. Alfred, being of no mind to talk to anyone new just yet, tried to keep his footsteps quiet as he walked further into the house so as not to alert her of his presence.

There were pictures on the walls, very old pictures, and these intrigued Alfred significantly, especially when he realized that a number of the pictures were of _him_. Well, not of him per say, but of his previous incarnation – who happened to look just like him. Alfred had been told that if a personification died, which was a very rare occurrence, they would eventually be reborn and go through the same growth cycle as other nations. What he wasn’t aware of, however, was that being reborn meant you were reborn to look exactly the same as your past lives.

He swallowed thickly, studying the pictures: black and white pictures of him and who he assumed to be Morgan, black and white _and_ colored pictures of him and other nations. One in particular caught his attention, not surprising since it was essentially the center and therefore the focus of the entire display. It showed him standing next to another young man, a young man with very heavy, kind of funny-looking eyebrows and a stiff expression. What intrigued him was the expression on his own face, however: bright, ecstatic, and maybe even a touch goofy. In the picture his arm was draped over the other man’s shoulders, pulling him close.

Based on the flags in the background, the other man must have been Great Britain…or rather the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. If he ever met him, Alfred decided he’d just call him Britain. It was less of a mouthful.

“Ah,” Thatch sighed, dropping the suitcases in his hands and rubbing at his back. “Retracing old memories?”

“Just looking,” Alfred muttered, turning back to the picture of him and Britain. Thatch stepped forward and adjusted his glasses, squinting at the photograph.

“Good ole’ Arthur Kirkland. I had the pleasure of meeting him not too long ago. Bright kid, but awfully serious.”

“Were we friends? In my past life, I mean,” Alfred asked softly.

“Eh, you could say that,” Thatch chuckled, though Alfred wasn’t sure why. “Until he died of course. He was reborn only a few years before yourself.”

“How’d he die?” That was one thing they hadn’t explained to Alfred during his time in the NRSA’s custody. As far as he was concerned, it wasn’t easy to kill a nation, and yet no one wanted to tell him how he met his end, either.

“Ah,” Mr. Thatch paused, scratching his chin before waving his hand, as if waving off Alfred’s question. “Doesn’t hardly matter now. I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time to speak about it when you meet him.”

Alfred wasn’t exactly looking forward to meeting the other nations, not when he already felt so lost and apparently had a couple centuries worth of relationships to remember. And now he knew he had some sort of connection with this…Arthur Kirkland. Could he possibly live up to Arthur’s expectations of him? Hell, could he live up to _everyone else’s_ expectations of him?

Before he had a chance to really stew in his insecurities, the housekeeper he’d heard shuffling around earlier finally made herself known. She pranced out of the kitchen practically beside herself with eagerness, wearing a neat white dress and a frilly pink apron. Her blond hair was tied into a messy bun, little strands of hair falling out around the sides and giving her an almost frantic appearance. Her excited demeanor didn’t help, and Alfred felt the need to take a few steps back as she happily skipped towards him.

“Alfred, darling!” she said, enveloping him in a hug. Alfred, not quite sure how to react, just stood there awkwardly for a moment, then resigned to pat her on the back a couple times. Thankfully the embrace didn’t last too terribly long before she stepped back, cupping his cheeks and studying his face. “Oh my word…you look just like the pictures, so very handsome,” she said warmly.

“Really Estella? No comment on how handsome I am?” Mr. Thatch teased, stepping forward and hugging the woman casually with one arm.

“Oh Clarence, you don’t need me to boost your ego,” she said, “but bring me some authentic Texas barbecue next time and you might hear a little more out of me.” “Done deal,” he grinned, then turned to gesture to Alfred, who was still standing there rather awkwardly. “I don’t think I need to introduce this kid, do I?”

“Alfred F. Jones: National Representative of the United States of America. It’s an honor and a privilege,” she nodded, clasping her hands together gleefully. “My name is Estella Brighton. I’ll be your housekeeper while you’re staying here. Your room’s already been prepared for you; I’ll help you with your luggage whenever you’re ready to settle in.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Alfred smiled politely, if not a bit coldly. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Alfred was taking in the photography, Estella,” Thatch added. “Maybe you can help fill in some of the blanks for him while we’re here.”

“Oh, I’d be more than happy to! You must be eager to restore some of those long-lost memories, huh?”

Alfred, trapped in a stranger’s house, turned back to the wall of photos and eyed them solemnly.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Memories.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred spends more time traversing the estate, and receives a hint about his past while doing so.

Alfred woke up feeling stifled by his sheets. He groaned and twisted within his confines, finally loosening the top sheet and kicking it off the bed. The comforter, stitched in red, white, and blue checkers, was barely hanging on and spilled mostly over the side of the bed and onto the floor. Clearly he’d had an active night of tossing and turning, but there was no drool spots on his pillow surprisingly, supporting the theory that he hadn’t slept well at all. 

He felt it, too. Dragging a hand over his face, Alfred groaned as he felt the room begin to shift, spinning slowly around him. He had half a mind to collapse and fall back asleep, but the room was too hot and he had probably overslept already. He stretched and sighed as his back popped in three different spots, when suddenly there was a knock at the door.

“Alfred? You awake, son?” Mr. Thatch asked, cracking the door open just a bit.

“Just woke up,” Alfred replied, grabbing the comforter and pulling it over himself just in case the man decided to come in.

“Ah, good,” Thatch said, clearing his throat. “Well, I’m on my way to the tub. Unless you want to use the bathroom first?”

“Go ahead,” Alfred said, leaning over the bed and fishing for the pajama pants he’d tossed onto the floor last night. “I’m probably going to head outside. Maybe walk the grounds…”

“Good, good. Well, I’ll not delay further then,” Thatch chuckled. “Time to rub-a-dub-dub!”

Mr. Thatch closed the door, but Alfred could hear him whistling happily as he made his way down the hall. Huffing to himself, Alfred pulled the pajama pants on and stood up, stretching again and wobbling only slightly. It would be appropriate to wash up before heading downstairs, but Alfred wanted to make his way outside as soon as possible. If he was lucky, maybe he could avoid everyone else for the majority of the day.

It wasn’t that Alfred disliked Mr. Thatch or Ms. Brighton per say, but they were talkative, prying folk. Alfred supposed that was part of their job; after all, their presence was meant to be a source of protection, and in all reality Alfred was lucky he only had them to contend with at the moment. There were men in black suits and sunglasses outside the gates of course, cruising up and down the street in their sleek, matching black cars. But they never came onto the premises itself unless it was to speak with Thatch.

Regardless, Alfred was distressed by the fact that when he was around Thatch or Brighton, he couldn’t escape the fact that he felt as if he was being slowly led to his own mental destruction. The tests and “training” surely couldn’t have prepared him for what was coming next, and something _was_ coming. He could feel it in the urgency in Thatch’s voice whenever he spoke on the phone with his associates, or that dreadful silence that followed whenever Alfred tried inquiring about the mortality of nations. Frankly, Alfred was sure there was something being kept from him, something he wasn’t allowed to know yet. It unnerved him and frustrated him to no end, because when you take a nineteen-year-old kid and tell him he has a great destiny but refuse to tell him the consequences of said destiny, you risk corrupting his soul in the process. And Alfred felt like his soul was being drained, drained and replaced with something inhuman and symbolic of more than he ever wanted to be.

But as Thatch said, mulling over what couldn’t be changed was pointless. Alfred knew this. It didn’t stop him from overthinking and losing his temper, though. The trees were his sanctuary for now; tall and proud, they stood unwavering through snow and storms. Throwing on a random t-shirt and slipping on his favorite beat-up sneakers, Alfred made his way downstairs. He briefly considered sliding down the bannister but thought better of it.

“Heading out, Alfred?” Ms. Brighton’s voice chimed from the kitchen. She stepped into the hallway, wiping her hands on a dishtowel and smiling that same warm smile.

“Just gonna get my exercise in for the day,” Alfred said, the corner of his mouth quirking up.  

“Well make sure you wash up afterwards, breakfast will be ready in about twenty-five minutes. Oh,” she paused, extending her hand to stop him from leaving, “And would you care to join me in the gardens after breakfast? I think it’s time we had a proper discussion, you and I.”

Alfred suppressed a groan. So much for being alone today. Still, he managed a small, polite smile.

“Yeah. Sure thing.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” she beamed, waving the dishtowel at him. “Have fun!”

Waving, Alfred bolted out the door and down the stairs, releasing a breath as if to release all of the tension in his mind and body. He jogged down the path and over to a rather secluded cluster of oak trees, each with long, twisting branches that extended downwards and then immediately back up again: the perfect climbing trees. Digging his foot into the bark of one tree’s trunk, Alfred lifted himself high enough to reach a low-hanging branch and clutched it fiercely. He pulled himself on top of the branch, straddling it, scooting across it in order to reach the next branch.

Continuing his trek up the tree, Alfred took in the sounds of nature humming around him. The cicadas sang loudly and Alfred kept his eyes open, hoping to catch sight of one. The leaves almost glistened in the sunlight: green and radiant, dancing beneath the bluest of skies. Reaching higher and higher, Alfred looked up and admired the canopy. And finally, he could look out and admire the entire property. Shifting one of the branches out of the way, Alfred made himself comfortable and allowed himself to sit and observe.

There was the typical movement past the gate, with sleek, black vehicles parked as inconspicuously as possible outside the perimeter. Alfred saw one gentleman in a black suit and sunglasses march up to the gate, peak around a bit, and then go on his merry way while talking into an earpiece. Looking down, he could see Ms. Brighton open some of the first-floor windows, airing out the house. And then, just beyond the house, Alfred could see a corner of the supposedly exquisite gardens Thatch had mentioned. And past them he could see what looked like a small pond, the water rippling and shimmering beautifully. He hadn’t known the property was so extensive, and Thatch hadn’t mentioned a pond to him either.

Smiling, Alfred reclined backwards on the branch and closed his eyes, allowing the breeze to ruffle his hair. In a couple days he would have to present himself to the people of the United States…though, he supposed he should start thinking of them as _his_ people.

But no, he didn’t have to think of that yet. They weren’t his people yet. He wasn’t America, he was Alfred F. Jones. It was a Saturday morning and he was climbing trees in his favorite park, his mother was sitting on a park bench somewhere nearby watching him lovingly, and his thoughts were as light as the clouds. After all, the world would keep spinning if he stayed in the past just a moment longer.

\- - -

About two hours later saw Alfred walking arm in arm with Ms. Brighton through the gardens. He’d cleaned up well enough, wearing a light blue polo and some nice jeans that were stuffed at the bottom of his suitcase. Ms. Brighton, having apparently had an obsession with the color pink, was sporting a hot pink blouse and a navy-blue skirt, her pumps knocking against the brick rather obnoxiously.

“Beautiful aren’t they?” she mused, forcing Alfred to stop so she could admire one of the roses. “It’s called a ‘Queen Elizabeth’ rose; I just love the different shades of pink it comes in.”

Alfred glanced at the rose indifferently, gently tugging Ms. Brighton’s arm. They continued on, surrounded on either side by flowers of all sorts: roses, lilies, lavender, irises, etc. While Alfred wasn’t exactly interested in flowers, he did admit the garden itself was stunning and obviously well-maintained. Apparently there was a regular gardener that came by to look after the plants, as Ms. Brighton had no skill with gardening. The fountains located in various sections of the garden were rather intriguing as well, having been individually designed by a friend of Morgan’s some hundred years ago. Alfred’s favorite was one closer to the edge of the garden shaped like a cherub riding a sea-monster; it was the most creative by far.

“Awful strange to have so many English roses in an American garden, isn’t it?” Alfred commented, pausing to sniff at a patch of lavender.

“True,” Ms. Brighton nodded, smiling. “And Mr. Morgan wasn’t very fond of the English if the rumors are correct. His favorites were the American dogwoods,” she nodded to some flowering dogwoods in the distance, the stark white contrasting with the other various colors in the garden. “They are lovely, though personally I enjoy a little more vibrance,” she shrugged, leading Alfred to a bench tucked away in a rather intimate corner of the garden.  

“The wild ‘Virginia’ rose,” Ms. Brighton noted, gesturing to the pink blooms surrounding the bench. Alfred sat next to her, admiring the flowers for himself. He leaned down and sniffed at one casually.

“Yup,” he grinned, “smells like America!”

“The favorite of many,” she nodded. “And that’s why we’ve planted so many around this bench, so that people can admire the true beauty of Virginia. I’ve been told you used to come out here all the time,” she hummed, “in fact, Mr. Kirkland was known to like it here as well. He refused to stay anywhere else whenever he’d visit.”

Alfred frowned at that. Clearly Kirkland was a notable part of his past, but the man was probably going to be terribly disappointed when he saw Alfred – someone who was so clearly in over his head and had no idea how to be a nation.

“Now that I think about it, he was probably responsible for all of those ‘Queen Elizabeth’ roses,” she chirped, placing a finger to her chin in mock thought. “Oh, people told me he had such a flair for gardening,” she smiled. “You both did. That is, until…”

Her smile faded and Alfred felt his chest ache.

“Before what?” Alfred pressed.

Ms. Brighton looked at Alfred sadly and shook her head, placing her hands in her lap.

“I’m sorry, Alfred. I know this must be so overwhelming and terrifying for you, and keeping secrets from you is the last thing I want to do.”

“Then don’t,” Alfred pleaded, taking her hand. “Please Ms. Brighton. I’ve felt like I was losing myself for almost two years now. I need answers. Anything you can tell me to better understand this…this situation. Anything would help.”

Ms. Brighton patted his hand, lifting it with her other hand, encasing his palm in both of hers.

“Alfred,” she told him seriously, “there are some things I’m not at liberty to discuss with you. That isn’t to say you won’t find out these things eventually, but the NRSA has a plan for how they want to integrate you into your nationhood. If I interfere by giving you information, I could potentially…”

“Please,” he interrupted.

Alfred stared at her, feeling even more incredibly desperate now that she’d confirmed that they were hiding things from him. He swallowed as she took back her hands, wringing them nervously in her lap.

For several moments both of them sat in silence, watching the flowers, listening to the continuous trickling of the fountains. Alfred sat and listened, staring blankly at the ‘Virginia’ roses. Ms. Brighton was insufferably quiet, so quiet that Alfred was almost sure she wouldn’t continue the discussion. But then she spoke again, very softly, voice heavy with uncertainty.

“You died in 1968.”

Alfred turned to her, surprised.

“You have to understand, Alfred,” she continued, “it was the Vietnam War and people were angry. And they were right to be.” She looked at Alfred, willing him to understand her. Alfred nodded, letting her continue. “Now, no one can say for certain whether your death had anything to do with Vietnam explicitly. But…that’s the rumor,” she murmured lowly. “A nation’s well-being is believed to correlate with the well-being of its national representative,” she explained. “I’m not an expert on it by any means, but it makes sense to me that when people are angry, no matter the decade or the war, you’re always going to be a target.”

Ms. Brighton lifted a hand to rub at his shoulder, but Alfred didn’t look at her. He didn’t want to think of the future implications of that.

“Alfred, are you alright?”

“How did it happen?” he asked. That was the main source of his confusion. Nations weren’t easily killed, after all. He’d learned that when he ran that knife across his skin – he’d done it so many times that night, but he had always healed. Even as a child he’d healed extraordinarily quickly, scratches and bruises disappearing almost instantly.

“I can’t say for certain,” Ms. Brighton answered, eyeing him carefully. “The details of it weren’t shared with people like myself. It was kept under wraps, and truth be told I’ve wondered it myself many times. What kind of weapon could possibly destroy an immortal being?” She shook her head, raising a hand to her lips. “I don’t want to think of it,” she croaked.

Alfred took her hand back in his, and she whipped her head to look at him, her expression both surprised and concerned.

“Alfred?”

“Thank you,” he breathed, feeling a coldness settle in his fingers and extend through his limbs. “Thank you for telling me.”

\- - -

Alfred didn’t like suits. They were too constricting, too formal. Unfortunately for him, meeting the President of the United States and being officially revealed to the public as the National Representative of the U.S. required finer dress than he was accustomed to. Ms. Brighton had fixed his tie for him, since he never had figured out how to do it himself. Altogether he thought he looked pretty sharp. Too bad he felt like he was going to vomit all over his newly polished shoes.

A knock at the door interrupted his impending sickness.

“Come in,” he answered as he stared into the mirror, trying to tame the cowlick on his head to no avail. Mr. Thatch stepped inside, also dressed for the occasion. He looked far more professional and put-together, much to Alfred’s chagrin.

“You look well, my boy,” Thatch commented, eyeing Alfred with approval. “Now if you can just keep your posture straight, you’ll have no trouble with all of those stuffy politicians.”

“If I can keep my heart in my chest, I’ll be satisfied,” Alfred shot back weakly.

Mr. Thatch smiled encouragingly and slapped Alfred’s back.

“Oh, you’ll do great. Besides, I have a present for you,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “a little ‘good luck charm’ if you will.”

Alfred watched curiously as Mr. Thatch pulled a pair of glasses out of his jacket pocket. Alfred took the glasses carefully in his hands, studying them closely. They were definitely old, and terribly familiar…

“You mentioned a long time ago that your contacts bothered you, so I thought it best to leave the contacts behind and…take a little piece of Texas with you instead,” Mr. Thatch grinned secretively.

Alfred ran his fingers over the frames, raising the glasses to his eyes and squinting through the lenses, before carefully placing them on his face. He turned and looked in the mirror, and the man in the photographs downstairs stared back at him.

“They suit you,” Mr. Thatch said warmly.

Alfred stared at his reflection and, rather hesitantly, reached out to touch the glass.

“I suppose they do,” he agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Obviously this chapter's a bit short, but I wanted to get it out before the next chapter, which will be much longer and will finally introduce the other nations. Hope you stick around!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred attends a Gala where he meets others like him.

Alfred realized very quickly that he hated the press: the blinding lights of the cameras, the paparazzi squeezing every last drop of air out of the room, pushing past each other to get the perfect shot or to shove a microphone in his face. He hated the exposure, and he’d been warned very early on that his newfound publicity would take some getting used to. He didn’t think he’d be reminiscing so soon on the days when he was still undiscovered and living at Morgan Estate in relative solitude.

But everything was out in the open now. He’d made his first public appearance at the White House a couple weeks ago, meeting the President first, though admittedly their brief interactions were short and somewhat starchy, and Alfred was resigned to admit that neither of their first impressions of each other were likely all that great. Then he was forced to attend an equally uncomfortable luncheon shoulder-to-shoulder with all sorts of stuffy men in suits (Alfred didn’t bother trying to remember their names or official titles), after which he had to make that damned commencement address whilst trying not to choke on the prime rib he’d eaten as it crawled back up his throat. Needless to say, it was a terrible day, and Alfred spent the rest of the week avoiding televisions and newspapers for fear of the backlash that would surely follow such an ungraceful introduction. The nation would be so disappointed to learn that their official representative was just a stupid kid with smudged glasses who couldn’t tie his own ties or tame the ridiculous cowlick on top of his head.

And now – now he’d advanced to the next level. This was a whole new ballgame of social anxiety; _these_ were the people he truly had to impress if he wanted to find a sense of belonging in this new role he’d, more or less, finally submitted to. Trembling and feeling very much like a lamb led to the slaughter,  Alfred clutched Thatch’s hand so tightly that the man grunted in discomfort and tugged away, prompting Alfred to scoot closer to him as they made their way into the ballroom of the New York hotel they were staying at. The National Restoration Gala was hosted by the United States as a means of celebrating the return of its National Representative, as well as a reunion of sorts between said representative and their counterparts. Alfred was informed that as many as fifty-eight nations were expected to attend, and in attendance alongside those nations would be secretaries, armed guards, ambassadors, and other diplomatic figures who were undoubtedly there in the interest of earning potentially beneficial contacts and securing political bonds between their own nations and The United States – altogether promising for one hell of a crowded venue and lots of drinking on Alfred’s part.

It would have been a beautiful sight were it not for the waves of anxiety washing over him; chandeliers flickered like stars above Alfred’s head, and he could see city lights outside the wall of glass windows, which were elegantly framed with long, white curtains. The room was also bathed in a warm, almost golden light, giving the entire venue a very intimate feeling. But the U.S. flags hanging on either side of the ballroom’s upper-railing reminded Alfred why he was really there, as did the countless tables of gossiping guests, all of them staring rather plainly at him. So, in retrospect, the room didn’t feel quite as intimate as it did suffocating.

The doors closed behind them, and Alfred felt Thatch’s hand pressing between his shoulder blades, guiding him forward, when suddenly he was being blinded by a spotlight.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to officially welcome the National Representative of the United States of America,” a voice sounded over the speakers, and the room sounded with applause, somehow restrained and polite, yet incredibly loud and overwhelming to Alfred. The boy felt his face flush and tried to manage a smile, but his mouth was twitching. He gave a small wave to a random table and looked back to Thatch for support, only to be grabbed by each hand by a couple of gentlemen and escorted up to the stage. Oh right, he’d almost forgotten that he was expected to give a speech tonight as well. Almost instantly he felt as if he was going to vomit; once had been enough, but he supposed that this was just part of the job now. As he faced the crowd though, shaking hands thoughtlessly with the gentleman who had announced his entrance, Alfred realized that he could never get used to this feeling.

The spotlight was on him again, and while it had never actually left, the brightness seemed even more intense when the room fell silent, waiting for him to step forward and speak. Alfred’s eyes darted around the shadows of the room, trying to catch a glimpse of Thatch or the personal secretary he’d been assigned or…someone he could look at for support. The man he’d shaken hands with – who apparently was the director of the NRSA – continued to talk into the mic, saying something about a new age in American history and the potential for the rekindling of old alliances…everything Alfred had been expecting. Alfred, who was tuning in and out at random, watched the crowd’s reaction, realizing that no one was actually paying attention to Director ‘what’s-his-name’. Instead, their eyes were all fixed on him, and he understood both the awe and the indignant bewilderment in their expressions.

But then Alfred’s eyes caught that of another – a young man leaning against one of the ballroom’s columns, several other official-looking gentlemen gathered almost protectively around him. Alfred couldn’t make out his expression, but his stare pierced through the crowd, and despite not being able to see the other man all that clearly, Alfred was able to recognize him from the photographs: Arthur Kirkland, National Representative of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.  What’s more, Alfred felt himself begin to fidget, feeling self-conscious under the unwavering glower…if it was even a glower at all.

“Alfred, if you’d please,” the director said, catching Alfred’s attention. He gestured for Alfred to step forward in front of the microphone, and Alfred felt every droplet of moisture in his throat evaporate into nothing.

For a moment Alfred stood there trembling, trying to compose himself. Wetting his lips, he looked down and realized he hadn’t brought his notes with him. He stared uselessly at his hands, clenching his palms and feeling the sweat drip through his knuckles, trying to formulate the words he’d previously written down. He couldn’t even remember how he planned to start this stupid, pointless speech.

Breath rattling in his chest, Alfred gazed upon the crowd and their silent judgment.

“T-Thank you,” he started, “for being here today.” He nodded at the director who stood at his shoulder, looking strangely confident and smiling to boot. “Thank you, Director, for your…amazing support and inspired words. I…” he trailed off, chuckling awkwardly, “I’m not very good at things like this, truth be told. Speeches,” he shrugged one shoulder. His eyes found Arthur Kirkland once more, still leaning against the column and looking, in Alfred’s opinion, terribly bored. Another young man, tall and lean with long champagne-colored hair, had managed to cross the fence of individuals surrounding Kirkland and was almost leaning against the other man in a similar fashion, to which Kirkland would nudge him off every so often. It was only when that man turned his sights to Alfred, however, looking particularly composed and perhaps a little smug, that Alfred realized he had stopped speaking and was staring at the two gentlemen very awkwardly. Some of the other faces in the crowd were looking around, trying to spot whatever had caught his attention.

“Um, to my fellow…uh…nations, I hope to earn your approval and, hopefully, friendship in the coming months of us being…uh…a-acquainted.”

Smug-face stepped forward, and Alfred could see his expression a little better. He was watching Alfred coolly with a quirked brow, poised and unfazed by Alfred’s clumsy speechcraft.

“And to the rest of my…citizens…and the rest of the world: I may not look like the smartest chess piece on the table, but I’m sure you know by now that looks can be deceiving and I think I can insp-inspire a new age in this…uh…this world of political harmony and communication to the benefit of everyone in this room.”

Smug-face’s lips curled up in an amused smile, and Alfred could only hope that was a good sign. He wasn’t sure if this guy was a fellow nation, but the man was clearly confident in himself.

“So thank you,” Alfred said, exhaling shakily, “and I sincerely hope you enjoy the Gala.”

There was applause and people were standing, and Alfred sincerely felt like he was going to fall off the stage. The image of people clapping blurred, but luckily Mr. Director Dude came forward and caught him as he stumbled to the stairs, patting him on the back and speaking encouragements that Alfred didn’t hear.

“Well done, Alfred,” Thatch said, holding Alfred by the shoulders and steadying him as the applause silenced and the general noise of the Gala in full swing began once more. “Not the most eloquent speech I’ve ever heard, but definitely you,” Thatch chuckled, and Alfred felt his face flush. Alfred’s entourage guided him to a table towards the center of the room as waiters began to spill forth, carrying dishes of the smallest entrees Alfred had ever seen. Alfred was sat down and a dish of scallops and asparagus was placed in front of him. It smelled delicious; Alfred enjoyed seafood well-enough, but he stewed in the thought of being hungry all night. He was a big boy; he needed as many helpings as he could manage.

Thatch took a seat beside him, but Alfred noticed that none of the others were sitting down. They dispersed to other tables as Thatch waved them off. Director Dude stepped forward and smiled politely, holding his hand out to an unoccupied chair.

“May I?”

“Of course, Bowman. I’m sure Alfred wouldn’t mind the company,” Thatch answered, taking a long sip of wine.

Director Bowman…so _that_ was his name.

“Then perhaps he also wouldn’t mind the company of a fellow National Representative,” a heavy French accent chimed in. Everyone looked up, including Alfred, and standing poised and polished in a sharp ivory and black satin suit was the smug-faced onlooker from earlier.

“Ah, of course!” Bowman exclaimed, standing to shake hands with the man. “Alfred,” he turned to Alfred, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder, “Might I present Francis Bonnefoy: National Representative of the French Republic.” Bonnefoy bowed slightly, and shot a positively suave smile at Alfred.

“Oh…OH,” Alfred said, quickly standing and almost knocking over his glass of wine in an attempt to shake Bonnefoy’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” he breathed, cowlick dipping in front of his eyes and likely making him look all the more boyish. Bonnefoy only looked amused again, shaking Alfred’s hand and then wiping his own hand on his pants.

“Please, I hardly think ‘sir’ is necessary. You may call me Francis or France. And what shall I call you?” Francis asked as they both sat.

“What would you like to call me?” Alfred asked, unsure.

“I’ve known you by both names, so it’s a matter of preference.”

“Oh,” Alfred responded, raising his glass of wine to his lips. He thought for a moment, then replied, “Call me Alfred, please.”

“Alfred it is,” Francis hummed, letting his wine swirl around the glass. “Forgive my rudeness, but you truly have not changed, Alfred. It’s remarkable.”

“Isn’t it?” Thatch agreed. “You should see the portraits we have hanging at Morgan Estate, Mr. Bonnefoy. It’s almost eerie how little things change with you nations, all due respect of course.”

“Of course,” Francis nodded, lifting the glass to his lips and peering over the edge at Alfred across the table. “Perhaps I shall come visit sometime? It’s been years.”

Alfred wasn’t sure if he was cool with that. He’d almost finally gotten used to having Thatch around all the time, and Ms. Brighton was becoming a welcome presence with all the treats she made him, but Alfred wasn’t sure about entertaining other nations in the comfort of his own home. Still, he couldn’t very well reject the offer either.

“Alfred?” Thatch pressed.

Alfred swallowed and smiled as sincerely as he could manage.

“Yes…of course. It…um…it would be my pleasure.”

“Oh no,” Francis said, “it would be mine. I understand you probably don’t remember anything right now, do you? And I’m assuming you must feel this great pressure to pick up where you left off but please,” Francis continued, “do not let yourself fall under the impression that you need to impress me.” A sardonic grin. “You never tried before, after all.”

“All in the past,” Bowman interjected. “Forgive me for bringing up politics Mr. Bonnefoy, but seeing as I have you here, I’d like to ask about your NR overseer’s future plans for stimulating relations with the United States.”

“All in good time, Bowman,” Francis smiled wryly. “Though I have been instructed to keep all discussions strictly casual tonight. I’m sure you understand.”

“Huh,” Bowman huffed, staring down at what Alfred considered a pitiful cut of steak. “Seems Renaud is more cautious than in the past.”

“Her job is as yours: to protect her nation’s emotional and interpersonal well-being. But perhaps we could share secrets,” Francis said seriously, leaning forward on the table. “What is the story with this _Thanogen Crisis_?”

Alfred side-glanced at Bowman, whose posture changed almost immediately. His jaw tightened, as did his fingers around the fork in his hand.

“Please, sir. We’re not at liberty to discuss that at this time,” Bowman answered, nodding slightly to Alfred as he adjusted his tie.

Alfred watched Francis, watched his eyes light up in understanding. He smirked and interlaced his fingers, resting his chin on them.

“You haven’t told him. Well,” Francis sighed, stretching slightly before finally standing. “Allow me to leave you in peace. I wouldn’t want to stir up more political controversy in the United States.”

“Of course not,” Bowman answered, but he wasn’t smiling anymore, and his posture was too tense.

“It was a pleasure to dine with you, Mr. Bonnefoy,” Thatch smiled, standing to shake his hand.

“Likewise,” Francis answered. “I promise to visit soon, if dearest Renaud will allow me. And Alfred,” he said, startling the boy.

“Y-Yes?” Alfred answered.

“Would you care to join me on the floor? Now that dinner has mostly ended, I’m sure you would enjoy an opportunity to meet the others.” The others. He meant the other nations. Alfred’s stomach dropped.

“Ah, sure. Of course,” Alfred responded, dabbing his mouth quickly with a napkin before standing. Bowman grabbed his arm.

“Would you like some of the boys to accompany you?”

“Now, now, I’m sure that’s not necessary,” Francis reasoned. “You might have noticed I did not bring my own entourage to your table.”

“Let the kid have some fun, Bowman,” Thatch sighed, waving Alfred and France away. “Take care of him, will you? I have to bring him home in one piece.”

“Naturally,” Francis smiled that suave smile. “Gentlemen,” he bowed, then led Alfred away arm-in-arm.

Alfred stumbled alongside Francis, who leaned in closer to whisper in his ear.

“Don’t let them deprive you of your privacy. I hardly ever allow that gaggle to trail behind me. It’s harder to have fun with them there,” he purred, making Alfred shiver.

They made their way to the edge of the ballroom, and Alfred glanced around warily as people whispered to each other and stared him down. Suddenly Francis seemed to have a specific target in his sight; he immediately perked up and his pace increased so that Alfred felt sufficiently dragged.

“Angleterre!” he greeted the individual, and Alfred was confused until the man turned around and he was almost face-to-face with Arthur Kirkland. His heart started pounding in his chest as he was looked up and down by piercing, viper-like green eyes. Kirkland looked unimpressed, and Alfred felt his anxiety skyrocket.

“I don’t suppose you remember Amérique? Allow me to reintroduce you.”

Kirkland looked amply annoyed, fingering his cufflinks offhandedly before placing his arms behind his back. 

“Charmed,” he nodded, expression still unfriendly.

“L-Likewise,” Alfred swallowed, choosing not to meet the other man’s eyes.

And God, Kirkland looked just as sharp as Bonnefoy, sporting his own suit of royal blue. Except for his hair, that is: blonde and messy. It looked almost uncombed.

“You see,” Francis nudged Alfred, “Angleterre died only a couple decades before you.”

“Oh…really?” Alfred replied, looking at Kirkland in awe.

“Hm,” Kirkland grunted, fidgeting where he stood.

“World War II. Correct, Angleterre? I’m sure Amérique would love to hear all about it, though I regret that I may have to fill in the details for most of it,” Francis said lightly, though he was plainly smirking at Kirkland. Alfred wondered what the actual nature of their relationship was. He only knew what his history lessons had told him.

Kirkland’s eyes narrowed in warning, and he cleared his throat before turning back to Alfred.

“Do not let France give you the wrong idea, America. Relations are fragile enough at the moment without revisiting history. And regardless of what they’ve told you about me, I don’t intend to spoil those relations with unnecessary banter or sentiment. Let’s keep this evening pleasant,” Kirkland said nonchalantly, glaring at Francis.

“Please, call me Alfred,” was all the boy could manage, but Kirkland was speaking again.

“As a matter of fact, _America_ , I seem to recall a matter that I urgently need to attend to,” he said, rolling up his sleeve to glance at his watch. “Thank you kindly for having me here, and I wish you the best in the coming months.”

And with that, Kirkland turned on his heel and stalked away, leaving Alfred feeling just a tad piqued.

Francis clicked his tongue.

“Oh Angleterre. As unfriendly as ever,” he glared at the other man’s back until he was out of view. “Forgive him. Making friends has never been Angleterre’s strong suit. The others will be more forthcoming.”

“I’m starting to think this was a mistake, Francis,” Alfred said, brow creasing. “I’m not adept at any of this yet. I don’t even know how I’m supposed to behave in front of other nations.”

“Behave like yourself,” Francis shrugged. “You’ll learn in time. All memories have to reemerge eventually.”

“How can I behave like myself when I don’t even know what that means anymore?” Alfred sighed, exasperated. Francis patted his arm lightly and pulled him to another group. Alfred knew most of these people were nations because he faintly remembered some of their faces from the photographs at Morgan Estate. Francis released his arm and ran up to one young woman with long, wavy brown hair. He threw his arms around her shoulders and pulled her backwards into a hug until she squealed. The others turned to address Francis, and then Alfred, who avoided their gazes as he stepped forward into their circle.

“France! If you make me spill my drink, I swear on everything holy that I will gut you like a fish,” the woman snapped, shrugging Francis off. Alfred admired her outfit – colorful and unrestrained, with a bright red skirt and a black vest over a white, cotton blouse. It reminded him of fun.

“That is no idle threat, and I do not intend to spill any drinks tonight. I intend to drink them. True, Alfred?”

“Alfred?” the woman asked, eyes widening as she nudged Francis away to get a better look. “Ó Istenem!”

“You have not changed. Not that I expected you would,” a muscular blonde gentleman commented. Alfred recognized him as Germany. “A wonderful party so far.”

“Thank you,” Alfred said, uncomfortable with how awestruck the others seemed. Still, it was better than how Kirkland reacted. Or…Alfred supposed he should start calling him England, as human names were clearly too personal for some.

“Forgive me,” the woman huffed. “Where are my manners?” She extended her hand and Alfred simply stared at it for a second before taking it. “My name is Héderváry,” she said, firmly shaking Alfred’s hand and then releasing it. “Elizabeta Héderváry. I am the National Representative of Hungary.”

Alfred nodded and smiled politely.

“I’m sorry. I know some of you…” he trailed off, glancing at Germany, who was somewhat terrifying, and also recognizing China, Japan, and Italy.

“Shall we help you?” China asked, looking bored but not quite as unfriendly as England had been. “It will make this go so much faster.”

“Please, allow me,” Francis stepped forward, draping his arm over Alfred’s shoulder. “The mouthy one with the ponytail is China. Then you have Japan, Northern Italy, Germany, and Austria. Only a handful of the nations you will have to know, but this should get you started.”

“Welcome back!” Italy beamed, raising his glass in toast to Alfred.  

“Thank you for hosting us,” Japan smiled warmly, bowing to Alfred. Alfred, who still wasn’t very graceful in situations like these, only half-bowed and smiled awkwardly.

“You forgot Canada,” Germany said, nodding to where another young man seemed to hide behind China and Japan.

Canada. Alfred had heard much about him, namely that the two of them looked so much alike that people used to confuse them. More history for him to exhume.

True to the rumors, as Canada stepped forward Alfred was suddenly hit with a feeling of déjà vu, except this time he wasn’t looking in a mirror, but rather at another person. The kid in front of him had the same wheat-colored hair – and his face bore such a close resemblance that the two could almost definitely be brothers. He, however, had a stringy curl as opposed to Alfred’s cowlick.

“Good to meet you, Canada,” Alfred said sincerely. Canada smiled back and muttered a greeting, and Alfred was surprised at how a spark of confidence in him swelled when confronted with someone more shy and uncertain than him.

“Are you his guide then, France? Do you plan to lead him around the entire Gala?” Austria asked plainly, adjusting his glasses.

“Imagine hosting the host,” China smirked. “Typical.” Alfred wasn’t sure how to respond.

“You have not regained any memories, have you America?” Japan asked, expression open and curious.

“None yet, so I hope you all might be…um, patient with me? I’m still trying to find my groove here, I guess.”

“Hopefully you find it soon. Because if I’m not mistaken, you still have dozens of people to meet tonight,” Hungary looked at him sympathetically. “Don’t worry; things will get easier.”

“Just drink and have fun, America,” Italy smiled. “Tonight is not the night for politics and no one will blame you for cutting loose.”

“Except for yourself of course,” Germany smirked behind his own glass. Alfred didn’t like when he smiled – it was kind of weird.

Trying to find his conversational footing, Alfred grinned sheepishly and rolled his shoulders. Perhaps if he tried his hardest to relax he could actually make it through the night without saying or doing something completely stupid.

“I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me. Truth be told, I didn’t know what I was doing tonight. I hope that’s not a trend.”

“From past experience, it definitely will be,” said Canada, who lifted a hand to pat Alfred’s shoulder. France and Japan shared a knowing look.

“Then hopefully the other nations here will be just as understanding. And hopefully things start falling into place soon so I can actually host future parties instead of being led around by the guests. I’m shaking so bad right now, I think I need more to drink,” Alfred laughed, swirling the last few mouthfuls of wine around in his glass.

“Then you are well taken care of,” Francis grinned, pouring the last of his drink into Alfred’s glass. “Trust me, my boy.”

\- - -

They sat out on the balcony, outside the tall glass windows. They sat under the stars, and Alfred – who’d had far too much to drink already – was content with letting his senses grow dull as the wind grew crisp around him and tussled his hair. It was easier to breathe out here, away from the intimacy between strangers and formalities Alfred was far too good at breaking.

Francis was still with him, but Alfred wasn’t sure why. He wasn’t stupid; friendship between nations relied on political harmony and mutual benefit. And despite his interactions with most of the other nations going well, there was still a disconnect. He wouldn’t know his standing with them until he truly knew himself. They were all potential enemies, that’s what he’d been told, wearing masks of civility.

And yet Francis was here, sipping calmly and watching Alfred from the corner of his eye.

“You really don’t have to stay with me, y’know?”

Francis hummed thoughtfully.

“I know. I’m honestly surprised your people haven’t stolen you away from me, yet. But I promised to return you in one piece.”

Alfred grunted in reply, leaning over the balcony and looking down at the traffic below. He loved the city, but he preferred that distance. Being caught in the threshold of everything…sometimes it was just too much.

“Did I do okay?”

“Not bad, I’ll admit. All eyes are on you now.”

“Yeah…”

They sat in silence and Alfred slowly grew morose. Memories. Not the ones he needed, but the ones he was stuck with from a past he could never leave behind. Looking upward, looking at what little he could see of the stars and filling in the rest with his imagination, Alfred remembered his mother. He remembered nights on the porch with the telescope she’d bought him for his birthday, remembered missing her terribly whenever she went to space camp. Back then he’d lay in the bed of his grandfather’s truck and look at the stars, imagining her going up there in one of NASA’s rockets. Admittedly, he didn’t know what space camp actually was.

He remembered an icy morning when his father woke him up from a very deep sleep and told him, like it was nothing, that his mother was gone and wasn’t coming back. He was young…he adapted. That’s what humans had to do when they went to space; they simply adapted. He thought, standing on the balcony, that if he closed his eyes and concentrated hard enough he could go back there, too. But instead of hearing his mom, he heard Francis again.

“You’re still quite human…you surprise me.”

“Whaddaya mean?” Alfred asked, turning to look at Francis.

“The Alfred we knew was never so pensive,” Francis explained, reclining against the balcony. “Never so quiet. I’m certain you must have startled the others.”

“What do they expect? Surely they have to know what it’s like…” Alfred trailed off, suddenly irritable.

“But that’s just it, dearest Alfred: they don’t. Killing nations is not commonplace. Many of us have respawned, yes, but it’s been centuries for me and even longer for others.” Francis tugged at the hairs on his chin, looking quite pensive himself. “I believe your closest reference would be Angleterre.”

“Great,” Alfred sighed, setting his glass down and burying his face in his hands. “I don’t know how far I’ll be able to get with him. Looks like I’m alone in this.”

“You’ve had one interaction with him, boy. You can’t expect him to open up so easily.”

“Didn’t ask him to open up,” Alfred muttered. “Just wanted him to call me by my name.”

“For nations, that is relatively personal, Alfred.”

“Then why do you do it?”

“Do I need a motivation? You’re lost and confused. And I’m intrigued by your apparent unwillingness to remember anything. I may not remember much from my last regeneration, but I know I was not this overcome with…humanity,” Francis’ face twisted with disgust.

“So…you’re just studyin’ me?”

“I’m letting you adjust at your own pace. Trust me, Alfred, the moment you start remembering your past life you won’t want to call me by my human name anymore.”

Alfred had no response. He was tired and dizzy. Burying his face back in his hands, he prayed he’d be able to get back to the limousine without vomiting. A thought occurred to him, then: something from earlier he’d almost forgotten.

“What’s the Thanogen Crisis?”

Francis looked at him, almost startled, but his face relaxed soon after. He chuckled and poured the rest of his wine out over the balcony, then stretched and sighed.

“I’m not sure I should tell you if your government hasn’t already informed you.”

“I mean, I’ll end up finding out about it either way.”

“Exactly.”

“Then why not tell me now?” Alfred whined, eyes weepy and slightly red with exhaustion.

“It’s not something I can properly explain to you while you’re drunk, Alfred. And it’s too serious to come from me. I said it before: I’m not going to make myself the cause of a political scandal in your country.”

“Serious how?” Alfred pressed.

“Let’s just say it’s the key to everything,” Francis said curtly. “That’s enough for now. As you said, you’ll learn soon enough.”

Alfred groaned exaggeratedly and watched as Francis straightened his tie and cleared his throat. The night was growing older and Alfred expected the Gala was winding down. What’s more, he’d had too much to drink and needed to be carried away before the press took hold of him. That would be an awful mess. Still, he felt morose and horribly thoughtful and he wanted to look at the stars a bit longer – or at least imagine them being there. He wanted to be human for just a few moments longer.

“Shall I escort you back to your people?” Francis asked, arm extended to take Alfred’s.

“I don’t wanna be here,” Alfred whined, tears welling up in his eyes. He didn’t notice them. “I don’t wanna be me.”

“Those feelings will fade, Alfred,” Francis said, pulling the boy to his feet. “Give it time.”

“I have no time left, Francis,” he stressed, only a little embarrassed that one of his apparent political rivals was seeing him so vulnerable. “I don’t want to let go of these memories.”

“I know, Alfred,” Francis said, and Alfred felt the pity like ice in his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate writing conversation scenes where there's four or more people talking at once. I hope the scene with the group of nations chatting didn't come across as too awkward! 
> 
> Also, I love France and that's why he freaking owns this chapter. I feel like it makes sense that France would want to be a mentor to America in this universe. After all, he and England fought for America's attention when he first appeared. Since England's keeping his distance, I think it only suits the story that France steps forward while England is emotionally absent.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred makes a discovery concerning his past relationship with Arthur, and things get tense as Alfred flees to the city.

_He felt young again. Illuminated by new light and prancing almost naked through the fields of that fantastic, curious place, Alfred was unaware of responsibility and unconcerned. He felt mischievous and gleeful as he chased a snake through the tall grass. He didn’t know what a snake was, but a part of him still recognized it, as if his memory was caught between lifetimes._

_He heard a rustling and ducked, hiding in the brush and wincing as weeds pricked at his tender flesh. Something bit his leg and he quickly itched the spot. The wilds were so untamed, and he was both curious and wary of the approaching shadow._

_“There you are, little one. I finally found you,” the shadow said. Alfred looked up, and Arthur was looking down at him fondly._

The mood of the morning after was hard to place. Alfred slept until noon, blissfully undisturbed by his housemates, and then stared at the wall until at least one o’clock in the afternoon. When he finally pulled himself back into the world of the living, he was greeted with hazy, somber memories, including that of his most recent dream. The room was quiet, and the curtains moved, manipulated by the lightest breeze. Alfred didn’t remember opening the windows.

Ms. Brighton hadn’t called him for meals, and Thatch hadn’t peaked his head in. Alfred couldn’t even hear the echoing of Thatch’s heavy footfalls – a common noise, one Alfred was well-adjusted to. He was both relieved and, somewhere deep down, frantic…restless. He moved quickly, aspiring to discover the indoor pool.

As Alfred swam, the memories of the previous night began to fill him with both regret and embarrassment. He’d been drunk, or at least tipsy, and had lost his composure. He’d been pathetic, lost himself to sentimentality and forgot the boundaries everyone had struggled so hard to instill in him. He never wanted to speak to Francis again, but he couldn’t say he hated the man either. It had been an interesting night.

He wanted to speak to Arthur. There were so many questions that still plagued him, and many of them pointed back to Arthur - to whatever connection had been lost between them. That dream from the night before could have been nothing; perhaps it alluded to Alfred’s desire to find understanding within his fellow nations. And yet, he’d chosen Arthur specifically. And why was he running through random fields with barely any clothing?

Alfred pinched the bridge of his nose. Surely he’d just had too much to drink at the gala. Regardless, he still itched to speak with Arthur away from the prying eyes of the press. Perhaps he could sort out some unresolved anxieties by meeting Arthur on a more personal, human level. But Arthur had been so dismissive of him that Alfred wasn’t even sure where to start with reaching out, if he even dared reach out. How formal would he have to be? Could he just mail a letter? Send a text? Did his government technically have to do that for him? Shit, he didn’t know.

He held his breath and ducked, swimming downward towards the bottom of the pool. He touched the concrete and shot back up, breaking the surface with a gasp. Shaking the wet hair out of his face, Alfred was startled when Thatch spoke from the edge of the pool.

“How’re you holding up?”

“Head feels fine,” Alfred answered, paddling to the edge.

“You were more morose than anything else,” Thatch nodded. “Bonnefoy likes to drink, no doubt, but I figured he’d go easier on you.” He chuckled, lips pursing as he looked off to the side. “Kirkland was always the worst of them.”

Alfred frowned, resting his chin on the concrete. They sat in silence for a few moments; Thatch had pulled his shoes off and rolled his pants up to dip his feet in the pool. Alfred kicked out behind him, staring at the droplets of water as they slid down his arms.

“I had a strange dream last night,” Alfred said finally. He looked up at Thatch, who raised his eyebrows.

“Oh? Do tell.”

Alfred sighed, pulling himself out of the water so that he was sitting beside Thatch.

“It’s kind of weird. I was running through a field with no pants on…pretty sure I was wearing a dress, actually…” Thatch snorted, and Alfred glared sideways at him.

“I’m sorry,” Thatch huffed from behind his hand. “Go on, go on,” he waved.

“I was, like, five or something. And then…Arthur – he was there.”

“And then what?”

Alfred scratched at his scalp, slicking his cowlick back.

“And then nothing. Arthur talked to me and the dream ended. He called me ‘little one’.”

“Pretty anti-climactic dream, my boy. I think the strangest bit was the dress,” Thatch smiled. Alfred’s frown deepened.

“It was strange for me!”

“Have you ever considered that it might have been a memory?” Thatch pressed, looking thoughtful.

“Maybe,” Alfred said. “I don’t know. I’ve had strange dreams before. They were so intense before…before the NRSA found me. I’d open my eyes and be in different places or…or speaking different languages. I’d see people dressed in really old clothing. Sometimes I’d be wearing similar clothes, and they were always scratchy and smelled terrible.”

Alfred refused to look at Thatch, but felt him staring. He paused, sifting through the memories associated with the dreams and nightmares he’d had before. He felt a tightness in his chest as other memories began to reemerge.

“I would bleed in some of them, y’know?” He wetted his lips. “Have you ever had a dream where you were seriously injured, but because it was only a dream you couldn’t feel any actual pain? Well, I felt _all_ the pain in these. I was shot in some, stabbed in others. And then I’d wake up and feel a throbbing wherever the injury was located. I had a bullet in my skull once and woke up with the worst headache ever.”

Thatch hummed but said nothing. Alfred shivered, considering diving back into the water.

“I guess it’s no surprise. If these are memories…Arthur was the one to…um…to find me, right?”

“That’s how I understand it,” Thatch said. “Of course, I’m not entirely aware of the extent of your history together. Only your fellow national representatives could help you there, I’m afraid. I only know what the history books tell me, and what I’ve heard as an NRSA official.”

Alfred nodded, thinking.

“I must have stayed here often in my previous life.”

“You were a regular Gatsby,” Thatch grinned. “You certainly loved your parties. Some retired officials used to tell me stories of how you’d invite all kinds of nations and politicians here for balls and dinners…barbeques…even the ones you didn’t really care for. Truth be told, you apparently were a bit of a show-off.”

“You don’t say?” Alfred muttered.

“I regret not being around for those. Truly. The 4th of July was apparently a dull day if you weren’t in the company of Alfred F. Jones, personification of the United States of Awesome.”

Thatch nudged Alfred playfully, his face sincere and only slightly teasing. Alfred allowed himself to smile back.

“You don’t suppose…” he looked away, threading his fingers together, “…there might be some leftover documents or personal items in the house?”

“Oh tons, I’m sure,” Thatch said. “Truthfully, I wanted to break into the storage room the moment we arrived. I just…didn’t think you were ready for that.”

“I wasn’t,” Alfred agreed. “But I think I am now. Might we go check?”

“We might indeed,” Thatch huffed, shaking off the water as he pulled himself to his feet. “Come along, son. Let’s go pry up some memories!”

\- - -

It had taken them almost twenty minutes just to find the key to the storage room in the jar of random keys Ms. Brighton kept in a kitchen cabinet, and then another ten minutes to get the door open. It fell open under Thatch and Alfred’s combined weight with a rather ominous wail, and Thatch broke into a coughing fit as the two were assaulted with a cloud of dust.

“Jesus,” Thatch wheezed into his arm. “Here you are, Alfred,” he gestured around the expanse of the room. “Looks pretty untouched to me.”

“No shit,” Alfred muttered, feeling a touch overwhelmed.

The room could have been a museum all its own, or perhaps a graveyard. Despite being a seemingly endless sea of gray and brown, the room was also a sea of white – white sheets, that is. Half-covered portraits lay propped against the walls with grim, painted faces indignantly looking out from behind the sheets. There was furniture, too: mirrors that had lost their reflective quality, a worn fainting couch, and a writing desk with a pair of old glasses and various documents still present atop it.

There was also clutter beyond belief, with a multitude of boxes strewn about and filled to the brim with what looked to Alfred like unorganized junk and knick-knacks. It was hoarder heaven.

“Come, come, look at these,” Thatch said excitedly, looking at what appeared to be a stack of old newspapers. Alfred peered over the man’s shoulder, reading the dates as Thatch spoke them out loud.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Some of these go back as far as the early 1900’s. Look here!”

Alfred leaned in closer. The paper was from 1912 and displayed a rather rough illustration of the Titanic with the caption, “TWO THOUSAND LIVES REPORTED LOST”.

“I don’t suppose you were on that, were you?” Thatch asked.

“I can’t recall.”

“Ah, of course.” Thatch didn’t take his eyes off the paper, examining it carefully before resting it on the table. He moved on to the next one.

There were papers from 1914 about World War I, papers from the 1920’s, a paper documenting the Wall Street Crash of 1929, and they just kept going. Presidential elections. Assassinations. Political scandals. Disney films. Alfred had collected a newspaper for just about every major American event up until 1968. The last one was from February of 1968, and read, “STREET CLASHES GO ON IN VIETNAM, FOE STILL HOLDS PARTS OF CITIES; JOHNSON PLEDGES NEVER TO YIELD.” Underneath it was a photograph of a Viet Cong prisoner being shot in the head.

Alfred backed away, feeling suddenly dizzy.

“Tragic,” Thatch said, shifting his gaze to a column about Nixon running for president. “Find anything of value, son?”

“Nothing,” Alfred grimaced, taking his glasses off and pinching the bridge of his nose. He sighed deeply and shuffled around, casually peering into boxes and finding little of value: mostly Christmas decorations and broken toys from different time periods. He turned his attention to a faded black suit draped over a different box, a very _old_ suit. It must have been his at one time. Holding it up to himself, Alfred found it rather difficult to believe. He wasn’t exactly fat by most people’s standards, maybe a little softer in the center, but he couldn’t honestly remember the last time he was skinny enough to fit into something like that suit.

Something else caught his eye. There was the gleam of metal, dulled with age, however.

Alfred tossed the suit aside and leaned over to dig inside the box, throwing various items out of the way as he pulled the old musket out from its confines, knocking the entire box over in his haste so that all its contents were spread out on the floor.

“Ahaha!” Thatch made his way over to where Alfred stood, posed with the musket like a statue. He stared at it, slack jawed. “What a find! Not everyone can say they have a Revolutionary War musket hidden with their junk!”

Alfred felt something trickle down his neck. Sweat? No. Blood? Probably.

Rain.

_“Damn it, why?! It’s not fair…”_

_“You know why…”_

Thatch shot forward as Alfred’s fingers loosened, just barely catching the musket before it hit the floor.

“Gracious, boy. This here’s an antique!”

Alfred stared blankly down at his fingers. Thatch’s brow furrowed as he saw that they were trembling. He placed a hand on Alfred’s shoulder and squeezed, positioning the musket over his shoulder.

“If this is too much, we can lock up and call it quits.”

Alfred blinked, allowing his vision to focus, before straightening his back and sighing.

“No,” he said, running his fingers through his sweaty fringe. “I’m fine. Just had a moment there.”

He looked down at the mess he’d made and huffed before falling to his knees to gather everything up. He’d managed to get most of the junk in his arms when he was distracted by a small, wooden soldier staring back up at him. It had tumbled out of an ornate wooden box, which lay dusty and cracked beside it.

“Cute toy,” he said, standing up to dump everything back in the box, and then leaning back down to pick up the lone soldier.

“Hm,” Thatch regarded it, adjusting his glasses. “Looks old. Chipped everywhere and the paint’s peeling off, poor fella.”

“Yeah…” Alfred said, cradling the soldier close to his chest. Images of his dream came back to him – images of him smaller, younger, and images of Arthur.

He pocketed the toy, shrugging when Thatch gave him a look.

“I found something you might be interested in,” Thatch told Alfred as they continued to mosey around the room. “In the writing desk.”

“Oh?” Alfred regarded a pile of first edition books with a bored expression.

“Yes,” Thatch smiled, “Letters from Arthur, in fact…”

Alfred squeaked, to his own embarrassment. He literally squeaked and felt the blood drain from his face as he stared at Thatch.

“Really?”

Thatch pointed to the desk.

“Look for yourself. They’re very…ah…interesting.”

Alfred tried to make his way to the desk as casually as possible, shaking as he noticed the mess of letters scattered on its surface. Hands trembling (again), he picked up one letter and began to read…

…and then quickly dropped it.

“The hell?!”

He tore of his glasses and wiped them on his shirt before putting them back on. Both hands on the desk, he scanned the letters, spreading them out to make them easier to read. He stared in disbelief down at puddles of words and phrases, none quite coming together. He felt a headache coming on.

_America,_

_Your attendance at Victoria’s funeral was appreciated, though unnecessary. For all your attempts, I still believe our relationship should remain a political one out of respect for ourselves and our bosses…_

_America,_

_Words cannot express……damned useless luxury liners…Please write me, and may God allow us to heal together._

_Alfred,_

_I forgive you for the incident with my fainting couch. The maids have been at it for a fortnight trying to scrub the stains off…_

_America,_

_War and Lusitania aside, you have carried on through this century, your century, stronger and more versatile than I thought possible of any man or being. Please allow this “old man” to grieve with you for everything lost to us. For all these years, I’ve withheld the emotions that destroy me like your curses and insults cannot…_

_Dearest Alfred,_

_I appreciate your letters, which have become more frequent as of late, but if you dare refer to me as your “baby” in public again, I assure you I will castrate you faster than you can say…_

_Beloved Alfred,_

_It’s good to hear from you, and I’m pleased to hear that you…I’ve been trying to say it for so long, but surely you know how proud an individual I am…please don’t hesitate to write me again soon._

_…_

_I love you._

_Arthur_

“I’m…I’m sorry,” Thatch said warily as he approached. “I should have told you before.”

Alfred stared at the words in shocked silence.

_I love you._

_I love you._

**_I love you._ **

Alfred pushed away from the desk, stumbling backwards into the wall. He licked his lips, felt his mouth go dry. He shouldn’t have read the letters. He really shouldn’t have.

Ignoring the fact that they were sappy and embarrassing as hell, they completely skewed his image of Kirkland. Maybe this is what the man meant when he said he didn’t want to spoil things with sentiment. And Alfred…could completely understand why Arthur would want to avoid talking about something like this.

He felt awkward, and embarrassed, and honestly kind of pissed, and… _what the hell_?

“Does he know?” Alfred swallowed thickly.

“I’ve…never asked.” Thatch reached out a hand to steady the boy, but Alfred shook him off.

“I can’t fucking believe this,” he muttered darkly, glaring at the floor. “I thought it was bad enough that I had to reestablish my political ties with a bunch of strangers. I thought making friends was hard enough. No one prepared me for _this_ ,” he gestured wildly at the letters. “How am I supposed to talk to him knowing this? What am I supposed to do? What does _he_ expect me to do?”

“Alfred, you need to calm down. I’m sure Kirkland…even if he knows about _this_ ,” he nodded to the desk, “…surely…surely he understands that you’re not -,”

“That I’m not the same person?” Alfred interjected. He scoffed, “Clearly that makes no difference, since everyone in the NRSA and at the White House and…fucking everywhere…keeps telling me that I am and that I have to remember all this shit.”

“Alfred…”

“I have to talk to him,” Alfred decided.

“What?” Thatch looked shocked. “Alfred, that’s not a good idea.”

“And why not?” he smiled sardonically. “If we were so damn close, then it should be no problem to confront him, man to man, and finally get some damn perspective on this whole “thanogen” issue that no one seems to want to talk about!”

“Alfred, you’re clearly upset and stressed out, and believe me, I understand why. But you need to put this entire situation into perspective, my boy. If you confront him now, you could potentially damage the relationship between the United States and Great Britain.”

“I don’t want to talk to Great Britain. I want to talk to Arthur.”

“Alfred, _listen_ …” Thatch pleaded, losing his patience.

“Give me his phone number.”

Thatch paused, mouth hanging open for a brief moment until his own words could register.

“No.”

“Ugh! Come on, Thatch!”

“No America,” he stiffened and straightened, frowning sternly at his frantic nation. “Listen to me: I cannot let you potentially sour relations between yourself and England. I will burn the letters if I need to, for your sake, but I need you to stay put and calm down. It’s too risky to do anything else right now.”

“I don’t want you to burn them,” Alfred frowned, relaxing slightly. “I just…want to make things right. Between me and him. I want everything out in the open. I want to approach him as myself, not as…whoever I used to be. Don’t you think that would be better for everyone?”

“In time, yes. That would be a wonderful idea. But you’re too upset and confused right now, my boy.” Thatch sighed, “And I know I’m mostly to blame, at least at the moment. I’m sorry, son. I never should have shown you those letters. I should have known better.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Alfred chewed on his lip, eyeing the desk warily.

“I just thought…some context was deserved. And for the record,” Thatch said quickly, squeezing Alfred’s arm, “I’m almost positive Kirkland would have the same reservations as yourself. I mean, he died before you, after all.”

“Oh…” Alfred blinked. He’d almost forgotten that Arthur had died…in WWII, Francis had said? Shit, if they were…well, yeah…what kind of effect must that have had on his past life’s psyche? He really hoped he’d never find out.

“Look, I…” Thatch shuffled in place, looking uncomfortable. “Let’s get out of here, huh? I think we’ve perused enough history for one afternoon.”

Alfred’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing. He nodded, following Thatch to the door.

Before the two men could shuffle out of the dust and back into the daylight, however, Thatch paused and stared off into a darkened corner of the room.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, moving hurriedly to the corner and pulling something out of one of the boxes. Alfred frowned, brows furrowed as Thatch returned, bringing the item into view. It was an old bomber jacket.

“With everything that’s going on, I wasn’t sure if you’d want this,” he said, handing the jacket over to Alfred.

Alfred studied it, from the soft fur of the collar to the “50” printed on the back, and felt a twinge of nostalgia for whatever reason. It was definitely old, and kind of worn, but…clearly well loved.

“It’ll start getting cold soon,” Alfred noted, looking up at Thatch.

Thatch smiled. He opened the door for Alfred and then stepped out himself, locking the room behind them.

\- - -

Alfred was pouting. He knew it was pointless. Thatch was only looking out for him, was only following the orders of the NRSA.

But he was tired of being lied to, and tired of being kept away from everyone and everything that could provide him with a sense of understanding. He wanted someone to listen to him. He wanted someone to reason with.

Laying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, Alfred pulled out his phone and scrolled through his music. The phone was given to him by Thatch before they left Texas. He had internet, but he wasn’t allowed to have social media anymore. He _was_ allowed a selection of old pictures, and he still had access to his iTunes library.

He leaned over and fished around for the earbuds that had been left tangled on the floor. His mother had a somewhat eclectic taste in music. But despite being a Texan through and through, she honestly didn’t care much for country music. Her favorites were Def Leppard and Dido, a strange combination he admitted. He brought up the playlist he’d made for her and meditated on it for a moment before going to his photo album. He scrolled through the various pictures until he came across his favorite.

Technically it was a photograph of a photograph taken on one of those old polaroid cameras that printed the pictures instantly. In the picture, a seven-year-old Alfred and his mother were posed side by side in front of Kennedy Space Center. His mother was kneeling slightly, her arm draped around his shoulders, and they were wearing matching sunglasses in the shape of stars that Alfred had seen in a Florida gift shop.

He stared at the picture for awhile, trying to recall everything that had happened that day. He mentally berated himself when he realized he couldn’t remember anything except his father taking that picture. It was just so long ago.

He looked at his mother. She had looked so much like him, he thought. Same golden hair and the same twinkling blue eyes. But perhaps that was just wishful thinking, all things considered.

He sighed and brought up his contacts, frowning at how few there were now. He had no friends to talk to, not anymore. Despite everything he…really wanted to speak to his father. Alfred supposed he needed to start referring to him as Mr. Jones. Sadly, Alfred was advised not to contact him either, and his phone number had been changed to help maintain that distance.

His current contacts included Thatch, of course, Ms. Brighton, Director Bowman, a few other NRSA officials, and…Francis Bonnefoy?

Alfred sat up in his bed, earbuds falling out.

“When did…?”

_He must have taken my phone while I was drunk._

Alfred looked around the room, slightly frantic, as if the men in black suits outside would sweep in and confiscate all of his belongings just for having this phone number. But that was ridiculous.

Alfred stared at the number, worried at his lip. Technically no one had told him it was against the rules to have another national representative’s contact information. Hell, he was encouraged to make friends with these guys. Surely there was no harm in…

Alfred scrambled out of bed, tripping on his sheets, and listened carefully at his door. Not a peep from either of his housemates. There weren’t footsteps or anything.

Now was as good a time as any.

Alfred carefully made his way back to his bed and cradled the phone close to him, typing erratically and squeezing his eyes shut before clicking “send”.

The seconds went by. Alfred stared at the message, feeling rather pathetic. A bead of sweat formed on the back of his neck.

Alfred huffed, lowering the phone and glaring at his reflection in the television.

“This is stupid,” he said.

He squawked as his phone started buzzing, almost throwing it across the room. He managed to catch it at the last minute and looked at the screen. Francis was calling him.

Oh God. Oh shit.

Alfred took a deep breath and answered the call, slowly raising the phone to his ear.

“H-Hello?”

“Alfred! I’ve been awaiting your call.”

A few hours later saw Francis at Alfred’s doorstep, escorted by a couple of his own bodyguards. The men in black suits outside the gates buzzed like when you poke a beehive with a stick. Alfred could hear various voices speaking through Thatch’s earpiece, which caused the older man to wince every so often from the incessant noise.

“Welcome, Bonnefoy,” Thatch greeted, making his way down the steps to shake the man’s hand. “Glad you could come. Although,” he shot Alfred a side glance, “I’m afraid we’re a touch unprepared.”

“No preparation necessary,” Bonnefoy smiled a super suave smile. Alfred wondered if he could possibly emulate it. “The drive was rather dull, but I am curious to revisit the beauty of Morgan Estate. It’s been decades,” he said, looking to Alfred.

“Heh…yeah,” Alfred tried for a grin, but he probably just looked constipated. He took some initiative, however, grabbing Francis by the arm and pulling him away from the doorstep. They wouldn’t get any privacy in the house. “So, I’ve got this covered, Thatch. I’ll show him around.”

Thatch’s jaw clenched and he stared Alfred down. Then he nodded, just the slightest dip of his head.

“Very well, Alfred. We’ll leave you two alone.” He pursed his lips, turning to the agents behind Francis. “Gentlemen, if you’d please follow me. We’ll see about preparing some refreshments,” he grunted, waving them forward as he trudged up the stairs behind them.

Alfred swallowed as he watched them leave. When he turned to Francis, however, the man looked impressed.

“And that’s how it’s done.” He smirked, glancing at where Alfred was still holding his arm, “Shall we?”

Alfred cleared his throat and released Francis’ arm, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“C’mon,” he said, leading Francis to the gardens. “I know where we won’t be disturbed.”

While Francis admired the beauty of the gardens, his attention was mostly focused on Alfred as the boy basically spilled his guts to the other nation. Alfred was grateful for the attention, though his face burned whenever he mentioned Arthur. He swallowed hard before telling Francis about the letters he’d found in the storage room.

“Oh, naturally. Everyone knew,” Francis nodded. “You two had a very…special relationship. From what I heard, you were by his side when he passed.”

“Great,” Alfred said, pausing and staring down at his sneakers. “So, what does that mean for us?”

Francis quirked a brow.

“It means nothing, Alfred. Those memories are lost, are they not?”

“Well, yeah…but…”

“Alfred,” Francis shook his head, “Angleterre has his own problems to deal with. Your duties as nations are not to each other. No one’s expecting either of you to reconnect, unless it’s for purely political reasons.”

“So…that’s it then?” Alfred shrugged, looking rather hopelessly at Francis. “We just start over? Pretend the past never happened?”

“There’s no clear answer, I’m afraid. Though no one would think twice if you decided to move on that way.”

Francis sat on the edge of one of the fountains, gesturing to the spot next to him. Alfred frowned and glanced around, but ultimately took his hands from his pockets and sat next to Francis.

“Well, then I guess that’s that. I’ll just move on…yeah.”

He didn’t know why he sounded so unsure. It was better this way. It was unrealistic and unfair to expect him to return to where old Alfred left off. And it was unfair to expect Arthur to do the same, right?

“You still want to speak to him, don’t you?” It wasn’t a question.

“Oh yeah,” Alfred said, looking up at Francis. “Too bad my nanny goat has advised me to avoid talking to him until the next World Conference.”

Francis smiled.

“And I’d be inclined to agree with him under normal circumstances.” Alfred blinked as Francis reached his hand out, beckoning Alfred for something. Alfred glanced up at Francis, confused. Francis nodded to his pocket, and Alfred’s eyes widened. He reached down, digging through his pocket until he finally found his cell, depositing it into Francis’ hand.

Alfred watched, shivering, as Francis typed a number into his address book.

“I’ve helped you revolt against your ‘nanny goats’ before,” Francis chuckled, slapping the phone back into Alfred’s hand. “I see no reason to break that habit now.”

Alfred pocketed his phone quickly, eyeing the entrance to the garden and the windows, looking for signs of Thatch’s disapproving stare. Luckily for him, it seemed no one was watching them.

“Thank you,” he breathed, looking back at Francis.

“Speak nothing of it,” Francis said, stretching and standing. “But do try not to get yourself placed on house arrest,” he said, seemingly walking back toward the house.

“I’m already there,” Alfred muttered, getting up to follow him.

Later, after Francis and his men had dined and left, Alfred sat in his room with the lights off. It was late, almost 9 p.m. Thatch and Ms. Brighton would be retiring soon. He’d tried to call Arthur’s number several times, but the other nation seemed intent on ignoring him. He’d left several voicemails, as well. He’d sent him a couple of texts - just a few to break the ice between them.

Okay, he’d sent him almost a dozen texts, but who was counting?

The phone sat in Alfred’s lap as he scrolled through his messages, anxious to hear a text alert. None came.

“Damn it, Arthur. I just wanna talk.” He swept his bangs out of his face, feeling strangely overheated though it was a rather cool night.

Alfred sighed rather dramatically, tossing the phone from his lap and pulling himself out of bed. He walked over to the window and peered out from behind the curtain. He could see the outlines of his agents by the main gate, and every now and then a car passed, the glow of its headlights illuminating part of the yard. Almost like a searchlight, Alfred thought.

Alfred leaned against the window, forehead pressed against the glass. It was cool to the touch. He inhaled and closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. His heart was racing.

He turned and looked back to the bed, looked at where his phone was still lit up. But there were still no notifications. Turning his head back to the window, Alfred unlocked it and lifted it open, stretching his body out of it and sighing as a gust of cool air billowed through his hair. He peered down and admired the growth and foliage on the side of the house – the vines tangling and twisting, having probably grown there for decades.

He reached a hand behind his neck, wiping away the sweat, before ducking back into his room.

He picked up his phone, checked to make sure he hadn’t received any new messages, and then began typing.

_Be in NYC in about five hours…_

He paused. Where was a good secret meeting spot? It needed to be somewhere with a lot of hiding places…somewhere they could potentially escape paparazzi…

He’d been allowed to tour NYC before the gala, but Central Park had been his favorite spot. He’d been especially excited to feed the ducks, watching them float aimlessly and free, his legs dangling clumsily over...

_…Central Park, Gapstow Bridge. See u there._

Good enough.

If Alfred could manage to sneak out and call a cab, he still wouldn’t get there until the very early morning. He’d be in deep trouble, too, unless he was somehow also able to get back and sneak back in before breakfast, which seemed extremely unlikely. And then there was the issue of Arthur not showing up. Maybe Arthur wouldn’t even see any of his messages. Maybe he was being confined to his hotel room, similar to Alfred. Still, Alfred had felt like a bird in a cage for too long. If he wanted to sneak around New York City, then damn it all, he was going to sneak around New York City.

Gathering up some of the birthday cash he’d saved, along with his phone charger and wallet, Alfred shrugged into his bomber jacket and leaned out the window, looking back once before climbing the rest of the way out.

He made it down without twisting an ankle, but just barely. The vines were slippery and couldn’t hardly support the additional weight. Landing on the soft grass, Alfred pressed himself against the wall of the manor, hunched down like a spy in the bushes. Lights bobbed and moved around near the gate, and Alfred tried his hardest to steady his breathing, though he knew they couldn’t possibly hear him from all the way over there.

Between the men posed at the gates and the security cameras above the front door, Alfred knew there was no way he could leave via the front entrance. He would have to pass through the garden around back and jump the fence or something, despite the fact that there were probably security cameras back there as well. He’d stick to the shadows as best he could. He chanced one last look at the gate, flinching as a flashlight was turned in his direction, and quickly scampered through the darkness to the other side of the property.

\- - -

Alfred had managed to find a hidden spot behind the pool house where he felt confident no cameras could detect him. After scaling the brick fence, which was much higher and harder to get over than he’d originally anticipated, he’d walked a few miles, keeping out of sight as best he could, until he felt comfortable enough to phone a taxi.

The ride had mostly consisted of him checking his phone repeatedly, and it had been a long ride, too. Luckily the driver wasn’t too talkative, but Alfred suspected very few people would be talkative this late at night. It was almost 3 a.m. by the time they arrived in New York City, and Alfred had to break out his emergency credit card to cover the expense of the trip, having underestimated how much cash to bring with him. He had the driver drop him off on 5th Avenue near Grand Army Plaza, shivering and sinking further into his jacket as he stepped out of the cab. The man mentioned something about the weather forecast, then wished Alfred well and drove off, leaving Alfred alone in the middle of a crucible of stone and glass and lights.

Alfred looked up, saw what might have been a helicopter fly over, but there were no stars to be seen. There couldn’t be here. He was completely alone.

There were, however, some clouds and the faintest rumble in the distance. If he and Arthur were going to meet, they needed to do it fast…or perhaps relocate to somewhere indoors. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and sent a quick text to Arthur.

_I’m here if ur coming._

Tucking his phone back in his pocket, Alfred crossed the street and tried to shield his face with the fur of his jacket. He didn’t think anyone would take notice of him; from what he had heard about New York, people tended to mind their own business. Except for tourists. Still, he didn’t want to take any chances and have someone recognize him. Admiring the Sherman Monument as he passed, Alfred jogged across the street once more and made his way onto one of the paths, cursing quietly to himself as he felt something wet hit his nose.

The park was…empty, which honestly shouldn’t have been a surprise to Alfred. It was technically closed, after all. That was part of why he chose it in the first place. But still, the absolute stillness and darkness around him made him uneasy. He could defend himself, make no mistake.

But as Alfred continued walking, traversing the walkways, trying his hardest not to get lost, he couldn’t help but feel that he was being watched. He removed his hands from his pockets, preparing himself.

A shadow here. A rustle there. And then the raindrops kept falling, one by one, hitting his glasses and making everything more difficult to see. The lights above him blurred, and he quickly removed his glasses to wipe them off. Still, the raindrops came down and it made no difference.

He shuffled a bit faster as he approached the bridge, and his heart dropped as he saw no sign of Arthur. The thunder sounded again, even closer now, and Alfred cursed again as he saw lightning. It wasn’t a good time to be out.

That proved even more true when the light sprinkling began to get heavier, to the point where Alfred almost felt the need to take off his jacket and hold it above his head for shelter. But just as he was about to call it quits and walk to a nearby hotel, his heart skipped a beat at the sound of someone running behind him. Someone was coming.

He turned around to greet the other person, expecting – hoping – to see Arthur. Instead, he was faced with a man in all black, the bottom half of his face covered with a black bandana. Alfred raised his fists and stepped backwards instinctively as the man pulled a pistol on him.

“Now you can make this easy on me,” the man shouted, trying to make himself heard over the rain. “Just get on your knees and put your hands behind your head and we won’t kill you here.”

“We?” Alfred shouted, preparing to make a run for it until two other men, all dressed in black, emerged from the shadows on the other side of the bridge. He was blocked in.

“Fuck,” Alfred panted, gazing past the man back the way he came. He could run. A simple bullet wouldn’t stop him.

He steeled himself, clenching his jaw as he stepped forward.

“You’d better back the fuck off,” he warned, adjusting his posture to give himself more height. “You’re not taking me anywhere.”

The man’s eyes darted to his companions, then back to Alfred.

“Wrong answer, sunshine.”

Alfred was momentarily aware of the sound of sneakers skidding on the stone, and then someone screamed, “Watch out!”

Alfred threw his hands over his ears as the gunshot sounded off, mimicking the thunder. He looked up, nearly cried out in surprise as he saw Arthur struggling with the man, both of them wrestling over the gun. Arthur kicked the man in the stomach, sent him tumbling over the bridge. The other two men leapt on Alfred, and he felt the panic surge inside him as he thrashed around, fists flying without any real direction. Arthur pulled one of them off Alfred, grabbed him by the hair and shoved his skull into the bridge. He moaned and fell to the ground motionless. Meanwhile, Alfred had been clocked hard in the jaw by the last man; he ducked down, hissing, but swept his leg out and managed to kick the man hard in the shin. The man cried out in pain before Arthur stepped forward and used the first man’s pistol to wallop him over the head, successfully knocking him out.

Alfred’s jaw was throbbing and he felt as if his heart was going to fall out his ass. Arthur grabbed his hand and pulled hard, forcing him to run despite being barely able to see anything.

“You fool,” Arthur panted, almost losing his grip on Alfred with the rain. “You complete fucking imbecile!”

Alfred was too exhausted and disoriented to be hurt by the insults. He ran, though. Kept running, hand in hand, with Arthur.

Eventually they found their way out of the park and back on the street. Alfred could hear sirens nearby, and his phone was buzzing nonstop. He’d been caught, he was almost certain.

“You fool. You complete fucking fool,” Arthur repeated, eyes wide and panicked, almost feral. “Do you have any idea what could have happened back there?”

“Enough,” Alfred groaned, bending over and trying to catch his breath. “Enough with the insults. Yeah, the bullet would have hurt, but I could’ve gotten away. I didn’t need your help.”

“You…” Arthur paused, looking extremely frustrated, biting his lip to stop himself from cursing Alfred out more. He turned away, looking up at the sky and brushing the fringe out of his face with his free hand. Alfred watched him as he did this, noting how casual he looked since the last time Alfred had seen him. He was wearing a gray hoodie, some loose jeans, and sneakers. They looked good on him. His hair was even messier than the last time, though perhaps that was also because of the rain…

But Alfred didn’t have much time to admire Arthur’s appearance, because Arthur had suddenly turned back to Alfred, nostrils flaring, and brought the gun back into view. “You have no fucking clue, do you? You don’t have a fucking clue what this is.”

Alfred stared at him, and Arthur scoffed.

“This gun has _thanogen-filled bullets_ , Alfred.”

“Thanogen…” Alfred trailed off, blinking down at the weapon, blinking away the raindrops and trying to make sense of what had just happened.

“Thanogen kills us. It already killed you back in ’68, you complete and utter moron,” Arthur shouted, turning the safety on and tossing the gun to the ground. He lifted his hands in the air, perhaps in exasperation, and walked away from Alfred. Alfred let him, still in shock. He stared down at the pistol in some sort of dumbstruck awe.

The flashing lights broke him out of this awe – Alfred knew they would eventually show up – and soon him and Arthur were accosted by police, members of the NRSA, and Arthur’s own officials. Thatch stepped out of a black limousine, looking redder in the face than Alfred had ever seen him. He felt his stomach drop.

“What the hell were you thinking?!” Thatch shouted, practically ignoring Arthur who was now standing beside Alfred.

Alfred sighed, staring sadly at Arthur as his men led him away, one of them relieving him of the gun. Arthur glanced back once, locking eyes with Alfred, before disappearing into the lights and black suits.

“How long did it take you?” Arthur huffed, looking anywhere but at Thatch.

“Boy, let me tell you right now, you’re not as slick as you think. And that tracker placed in your phone is probably the best and also the worst idea the NRSA has ever come up with.”

Tracker. Alfred should have known.

Alfred felt like an idiot – an unaccomplished idiot who was now soaked and scared shitless.

“Worst how?” he asked.

“Well considering it probably led those thugs straight to you…” Thatch trailed off, gripping his head as if in terrible pain. “But more on that later,” he sighed.

“Hotel?” Alfred asked hopefully, nauseous at the implications that someone, whoever those guys were, could be tracking him.

“Hotel,” Thatch agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY FINISHED. It didn't take me long to write this honestly; it just took me a long time to start writing it. ;_;
> 
> There are some small nods to RobinRocks in the letters. I love their fics, particularly 1912 and 1915. 
> 
> Also, I'm not sure how realistic it is to take a taxi all the way from Virginia to NYC. >.> Ah well.


End file.
